The dying Doctor
by marylouleach
Summary: Doctor Watson is gunned down in a dark alley after work, Sherlock wont rest until he finds the man responsible. Guilt riddles him when he realizes he could have prevented this.
1. Chapter 1 A Question

**Chapter 1. A Question**

"Excuse me, Doctor?" John turned to meet a middle aged man in a black hoodie. He looked a little pale, bags under his eyes_, 'Drug addict. No. Iron deficient. Maybe. Fatigued most likely.'_

John put on a polite smile and replied despite his own exhaustion and wish to go straight home after pulling a very long double shift.

"Yes. Can I help you?" Mr. Hoodie had his hands behind his back and asked again.

"Are you a doctor?" the same question, John wondered if the man was drunk he wasn't swaying and there wasn't a usual sour smell of liquor or alcohol.

His soldier instincts went on alert seeing the mans face, something in his eyes made John nervous, he was very much aware he couldn't see the strangers hands. John shook it off, running around with Sherlock was making the Doctor paranoid.

"Yes. I am." the stranger smiled politely, had John been paying attention he'd of seen the gleam of excitement in the other man's dark brown eyes.

"Oh, I am sorry to bother you. You must be on your way out –"

"No, it's no bother. I have time if you need."

"Uh, well, I am a little lost can you show me where the cafeteria is or just point me in the right direction."

"Ah, yes. It's just down that hall there past the front desk follow the arrows, and the smell of stale bread and two day old beans." Mr. Hoodie chuckled now his hands in his hoodie's pocket.

"Have a good night Doctor." Mr. Hoodie started to whistle some familiar tune, one John remembered marching to in the army.

John yawned again, another reminder that it was way past his bedtime. He wanted to go home and sleep in a nice warm bed, for at least five hours, _'Please God, just five hours'_ but knowing his flatmate it wouldn't be likely.

Once Doctor Watson was outside the cool London air helped bring him out of the exhaustion that throbbed through his very being. He pulled his black jacket around him, wondering if he should stop and get milk or take the chance that his roommate had done what he'd asked.

"Doctor?" John's thoughts cut short, he turned toward the familiar voice, knowing it was Mr. Hoodie, even before he turned, '_perhaps he's lost.'_

His phone buzzed in his pocket, without looking John swore under his breath at the text he'd no doubt received from Sherlock **_"Out of milk."_** John pulled his mobile out confirming he had been correct." Dammit Sherlock, I told you to get Milk." He grumbled.

"Doctor." The man's voice more persistent, less of a question more of a demand.

"Oh, yes. Hello again-" John frowned as his eyes fell on a 9 mm pointed directly at him. "You've got to be kidding me?" he groaned "Just one normal night, with at least 5 hours sleep is that too much to ask?" Mr. Hoodie's dark eyebrows shot up definitely thrown off by the unusual reaction.

"Keep walking Doctor, nothing funny, let's go have a nice quiet chat somewhere private."

"No. Here is good." John growled, his shoulders straightening his blue eyes held the dark brown ones.

"Alright, have it your way. Either we move over somewhere a little more private or I shoot the first person to walk through those A&E doors, man women or child. I know you could attempt to wrestle the gun from me, but I've noticed you rubbing your shoulder earlier. And maybe you manage to get the gun, or I manage to hit a bystander. Tell me doctor. are you willing to take that chance? Are you willing to play god?"

John swore under his breath knowing as did the shooter, that the A&E was full of mothers with sick children and the elderly.

"Ah, that's what I thought, go on then turn slowly nothing funny" The gun was pressed into the small of his back, John remained stiff and allowed the stranger to lead him across from the hospital towards a darkened alley.

**_~0~_**

Sherlock looked impatiently at his phone he'd sent his flatmate a text and usually John replied promptly. As the impatient detective started to send another text, his mobile started to vibrate. John's name flashed across the screen he went to pick it up.

"John-" Sherlock thought something was wrong immediately, there was no answer, just muffled sounds than he hit speaker phone. "John?" he heard his flatmate's distinctively stern voice. And his next words froze the blood in the consulting detective's very veins.

"If this is a robbery, just take my wallet and get on with it. No one has to get hurt." Sherlock could hear his friend reached into his wallet pocket for his wallet, perhaps he was holding his mobile in his other hand.

"Tell me Doctor, one thing. When you work on people, are they only numbers to you? Slabs of meat? Detached from the horrors outside in your nice air conditioned office. Are your patients all blurred faces? Do you like to play god?"

**_~0~_**

John was looking for an opening; they were in the secluded alley, but if he were in a scuffle what were the chances that some innocent bystander would come to help? Only to be shot in the process. No John couldn't allow that. Now this physcopath was asking him if he liked to play god? This confusing question brought John's hands down.

"What? Do I know you?" John didn't have time to ask anything else before the would be mugger pulled the trigger. The first bullet tore through John's chest and knocked him back from the force and surprise alone. Just perfectly timed as an ambulance siren covered up the sounds of the next bullets.

"No, you don't know me. But all of you doctors are the same. Cold, emotionless bastards. You all deserve to pay for her death." The mugger leaned over putting a black booted foot down hard on the bleeding shoulder, and with the gun still in his hand he pulled the good doctors wallet out checking for cash.

The hooded man's face stilled his eyes widening as he read the name on his victim's ID. His expression changed he took a step back.

"Why?" John groaned. His chest burned he could feel the blood pouring from the open hole.

"You're an Army Doctor? It says here, Captain Watson North Umberlin-" John tried to move back something cold and dangerous in Mr. Hoodie's tone. The blond Doctor couldn't sit up, his body was pulsing with pain. The shooter had one hand holding the gun and the other John realized was a prosthetic.

Mr. Hoodie fired now, his face becoming one of icy rage, he emptied the gun into the doctor, even after it was out of bullets he kept clicking. " Because you're a Doctor. And I can." He growled, his hand shaking he'd put the wallet in his own pocket.

John watched through his fading vision that the mugger started to walk calmly off, the bastard half turned and waved as if saying goodbye to an old friend. "Thanks Doc" he started to whistle a familiar tune, Johns shock addled mind couldn't quite place.

He groaned, trying to will himself to stay awake, he could crawl out but how far would that get him. He'd tried to roll over and push himself up, fighting the pain, it tore threw him, causing black pin pricks to cloud his vision. He thought he was hearing things, leaning against the cold brick of the wall, breathing hard. 'A lung.' He diagnosed his injuries taking inventory, and he heard it again.

"Watson!" he realized then that he had his phone is his hand, the light of his mobile dimmed from the blood, blood so much blood, he coughed; this nearly brought him to his knees.

Being a Doctor, John knew it wasn't good, shock was setting in, his adrenaline would wear off and the pain would be even more intense he needed to call for help before that happened.

If he had any chance for survival, he fumbled with his phone, now slippery. John was determined to dial emergency-but the voice on the other end sent a calming warmth through him. For a minute the world could stop, and he held to the life line.

"John?"

"Sherlock-" he wheezed now, getting harder to breathe,

"John. Where are you?" more a demand then a question.

"Sh-" John's voice refused to form the rest of the vowels or consonants. He knew he had to push the words out.

"John?" worried pinched the voice

"Alley-hospital-ambulan-" then the adrenaline dropped kicking his feet out from under him, and the darkness bled into the light surrounding the mobile suddenly. Perhaps the light was going out, either way John couldn't hold the mobile any longer his hands felt heavy and he clung to the cold dirty brick of the alley wall.

**~0~**

"JOHN!" Sherlock growled no answer he loathed to hang up but the line was dead. He called Lestrade hurrying coat in hand he dashed out the door.

"What is it?" the DI's voice was gruff from being pulled from an hour of sleep.

"Lestrade, John has been shot! He's somewhere near the hospital in an alley. "

"What!?" Lestrade was awake now, wide awake.

* * *

_**A/N: Sorry for the update I'm just cleaning up some. This story has a few typos that escaped my notice among other things :) **_


	2. Chapter 2 THE SOLDIER'S EYES

**CHAPTER 2. THE SOLDIER'S EYES**

The desert sun burned down on the Army Doctor's armored shoulders, the heated winds kicked sand in his mouth, nose under his clothes, just sand everywhere. The heat! The heat, it felt like the whole damn country was against them even the damned weather.

Despite his fatigue and discomfort Doctor Watson held fast, shouting orders for his men to take cover. Their caravan had been attacked first by an IED and then insurgents took aim, he'd directed his men behind one of the turned over vehicles. Scanning the scene in front of him John could see an injured soldier right smack dab in between the insurgents and the safety of cover.

The enemy was using the cover of their own intact vehicles for safety, they were unforgiving and unrelenting.

John refocused on the young private who was now trying to crawl towards the flipped over humvee John's men were using as a barricade. The young man cried out as a bullet his leg.

"Dammit! Stay down private!" Watson shouted. "I'll come get you!" he had his men concentrate their fire on the enemies vehicle's, just a distraction he didn't need them to hit anyone, although it would be nice, he just needed time to slip through and drag the man to safety.

Several bullets whizzed around him, and the heat of the sun baked earth pushed at his exposed skin, tightening from lack of fluid, hell he couldn't even sweat.

"I'm coming!" He announced moving at a crawl he latched onto the back of the younger mans vest, by then the insurgents had caught on and started to shoot in his direction. John refused to be deterred. These men where under his command, they all were his responsibility.

"Stay down." He put his body over the downed soldier, his hands weren't gripping the hard Kavlar vest, or the normal army fatigues of a combat soldier-no he blinked in the intensity of the sun, the material was instead a scratchier material, the collar flipped up in an annoyingly familiar fashion.

A coat, the soldier was wearing a dark coat, anyway John thought to himself pushing this discovery from his mind, he had to get them both out of the line of fire. Looking down again he saw it wasn't a young private in fatigues-instead a pair of intense grey eyes stared up at him, there was a mess of dark curls midnight against the pale of the young detectives face.

"Sherlock? What are you doing in Afghanistan?"

"John, I am not in Afghanistan. What are you doing in Afghanistan?" John blinked past Sherlock's casually said words. His surroundings faded from the heat and blinding desert browns and beiges to something dimmer more comforting in it's draftiness. The smell of gunpowder and blood drifting away, inveloped by the scent of chemicals, biscuits and tea.

Captain Watson was just Doctor Watson, a man in his comfortable brown jumper standing now in the kitchen of 221B. He turned slowly towards the sound of the kettle boiling.

"Sorry-what?" John found himself no longer lying down ducking under the spray of bullets. Instead he stood in not just any kitchen but one in London, an apartment on Baker Street. Home, he was home Baker Street. Still confused the Doctor put a hand to his chest, feeling nothing but the soft material of his brown jumper.

"John. What's he doing here?" Sherlock's voice once again cut through his scattered thoughts.

"Hmm who?" John cleared his throat peeking out from the kitchen into the wonderfully cluttered living room.

Sherlock was pointing irritably to the man sitting in the soft leather chair, Sherlock's normal seat, adding to the slender detective's irritation. The consulting detective sat across from his brother in John's chair, half turned childishly refusing to face the older Holmes. Mycroft clutched his umbrella, rolling his eyes, he didn't reply to the outburst.

"Mycroft?" John scrunched up his face feeling as usual he'd missed something.

"Tell him to leave John, he cant stay." Sherlock held his violin now plucking impatiently at the strings.

"Tea Mycroft?" John asked politely ignoring his pouting flatmate. The older Holmes turned those icy grey eyes over the retired soldier, a frown formed on the usually passive face.

"Don't bother John he doesn't get to stay." Sherlock huffed again; John shook his head he asked Mycroft again, the older Holmes was only looking at the Doctor with an even more intense stare.

"You know I never understood the relevance of friends Sherlock." Mycroft was looking at John but speaking to the younger Holmes.

"Excuse me?" Once again the Doctor felt as if he missed it again, something important. It wasn't like Mycroft to be so rude.

"I have acquaintances John, but not friends. I have people on my payroll and that's why they protect me. But you John are an enigma you refused money from me, all I asked was just for you to spy on my brother. Simple, yet you refused me? No one ever refuses me. So I wonder again John, how it is he listens to yo? He cares about your opinion. No one else, not even mine but your approval-it means a lot." Mycroft sounded as if he were speaking to himself rather than the confused Doctor.

"Mycroft don't bother John, with your dull observations. He has much better things to do, like make me tea." Sherlock grumbled.

Mycroft shook his head, "He was never one to share his toys."

"John is not a toy. Mycroft he is a person. Really. Don't insult the good doctor. John make him leave. Why is he even here?" again with the whining.

I don't know why you put up with him." Mycroft sighed glancing over at the now pouting detective.

John laughed; he had to, because the question it was sincere.

"Why don't you make him leave, John?" now Sherlock moved to face his older brother glowering, the violin forgotten in the clasp of his slender fingers.

"Because he's my friend. And your brother Sherlock. Besides he isn't bad company, unlike some consulting detectives I know." It was Mycroft's turn to look confused. John guessed the man was probably trying to recall the last time he felt as if he were friends with someone, really friends, no ulterior motives.

"Yes, John I will be glad to take some tea." Mycroft's voice sounded off. John looked around the apartment there was Lestrade, he was standing off near the door, hands in is pockets, but when did he get there? Why did he look so solemn?

"Tea?" John offered.

"Yes I'll take a cup." The DI looked exhausted as he pinched the bridge of his nose, then John noticed Molly and Mrs. Hudson also standing in the cluttered living room. Sherlock looked at John his eyes intense, his mouth slanted with a smug grin.

"Dont act surprised John, people are going to care about you. I can't imagine why you'd want it, but these are your friends."

"Ours." John smiled "Well except Mycroft I guess." Mycroft chuckled. There was gunfire outside the apartment. He looked around the room, no one was moving, they all held the same pinched worried expressions.

John heard the gunfire growing closer, the sounds were drawing the Doctor to the window of the kitchen. Pulling back the dark curtains revealed, the desert and battlefield of Afghanistan, just outside. Not the usual bustle of Backer Street, no, it was sand and soldiers and gun fire. Sherlock moved to stand next to the confused doctor.

"You dont have to go out there John. Not alone at least." A statement.

"It follows me everywhere." A confession.

"I know John." Sherlock started to play a familiar melodious tune one his violin, one he'd composed himself. It started off steady like marching, then moved into a quick burst of sharps and slurs, like a battle field.

John listened without turning from the window, as the notes transitioned into urgent and chaotic, then finally something slow and sad like loneliness and darkness only to slip into a happier tune.

"I wrote it for you John." John turned and Molly, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade everyone except Mycroft and Sherlock had disappeared. Had they even been there?

"It's a beautiful piece." John murmured, moving from the window, remembering the tea kettle. Mycroft thanked him as he served the tea, the intense grey eyes not meeting the good Doctor's own blue, instead they were concentrated just below the doctors clean shaven chin, John put a hand up to his chest in reaction.

"John?" Mycroft leaned forward but the old soldier took a step back, and the good Doctor cleared his throat continuing the forgotten conversation

"It's best to have someone cover your back when in war. You have higher chances of survival. That's what friendship is. Friends protect each other. Everyone has friends."

"Interesting theory." Mycroft continued to stare at John's chest.

"S'not a theory Mycroft. If there were a gun to your head I wouldn't just lie down, as I m sure neither would Sherlock and neither would you. That's what friends do."

The younger Holmes snorted, "Unless I held the gun. Besides you have too much faith in my dear brother." Sherlock clutched his violin bow glaring at his brother.

"Sherlock." John scolded but he never finished the reprimand, instead he dropped his cup of tea, why did it hurt to breathe-his hands refused to steady.

"John!" Sherlock put his violin down now, he moved to his friend's side.

"What-" the Doctor had questions but nothing was coming forward.

"John. Hold on. " a plea, how unlike Sherlock.

"Whats-wrong? Sherlock, are you alright?" Johns eyes scanned his worried friend's face, was Sherlock injured, he had a tense look of pain.

He couldn't be worried over him, he was nobody just a doctor, just a retired army doctor, plain old John Watson. No importance to anyone really. It wasn't humility no it was a known fact. He Doctor John Watson, former soldier and broken man, wasn't worth the small space of this mans mind palace, not even a simple slip of paper on a dusty desk somewhere.

Not important. But the detectives face was one of pinched worry, and it became unfocused and a little hazy. The sounds of the battle outside an exchange of artillery drew John's attention back to the window.

"The war it follows me." he said again, hearing the nearing gun fire.

"Dont worry John. Your alright now." Sherlock stood directly behind the shorter man.

"Am I? You shouldn't be here." Statement, the good doctor's eyes remained on the battle just outside the window.

"Give him room Sherlock." Mycroft's stern voice penetrated the haze of John's mind, briefly and the pain was intense, it vibrated through him, and John hand came away from his chest covered in blood. He tried to talk but no words came, instead Sherlock and Mycroft stood now far from the window. Eyes on the blood soaking through John's checkered button up shirt, staining his comfortable brown jumper.

"John-" Mycroft cleared his voice but it was Sherlock who went to the doctor's side.

"Its alright John, you'll be alright. Just breathe, just keep breathing-you're not alone."


	3. Chapter 3 Apologies and DATA

**Thank you for your reviews! Sorry for the lack of action I promise it will speed up bare with me **

* * *

**_CHAPTER 3. Apologies and DATA_**

"Let me see him!" Sherlock had burst through the theater's doors, the doctors and nurses already starting the prepping process for surgery paused briefly.

A male nurse failed at holding and redirecting the tall dark haired detective, the thin man pushed past him into the employee only restricted area.

"Who the hell are you?" one of the doctors growled. Sherlock didn't give him a second glance his mind started taking in every detail of the man immediately upon scanning the room. He was mid thirties; happily married, judging by the frown lines on his face and the set of his jaw he was a man of determination, his steady hands moving deftly inspecting the wounds no doubt categorizing what needed attention immediately.

"John?" Sherlock took a position at his friend's side, putting his cool hand in his injured friends, receiving a squeeze in turn, in response to hearing his name.

Then almost a whisper, "Sherlock? What are you doing in Afghanistan?"

"John" Sherlock frowned "I 'm not in Afghanistan. Question is what are you doing in Afghanistan?" then John gave a slight smile was it relief, before his eye lids, fluttered shut and what ever strength in the good doctor now deflated, spilling out slowly and suddenly, like that red balloon mummy had given Sherlock from the carnival.

A young Sherlock had wanted to see what made it float, so he untied the end and it shrank in on itself. Except John was a person, not a balloon, his arms where limp over the side of the operating table. Someone was pulling Sherlock out, they had a firm grasp on his arm. He turned slightly in a daze to see Lestrade's own stern but pale face.

"Let them work Sherlock, or God help me I'll hand cuff you to a bench." Not a threat, that was the _'Push me and I'll bloody do it'_ tone of voice.

After the long hours of surgery an exhausted man in a crisp lab coat, pompous bastard had changed from his bloodied scrubs. Sherlock scowled, deducing that the Doctor's vanity only delayed the news of John's condition. Much needed data, something to start from, no actions could be set into motion until Sherlock knew what was his friend's condition was. And then from there he'd plan the proper course of action, several darker than others depending on John's health. Yes, his attacker would pay and dearly.

"We pulled the bullets out," the middle aged doctor turned to DI Lestrade, "Gave the bullets as evidence to a Sergeant Donovan. "

"That's all well and good but what of John?" Sherlock, impatient as always.

"Mr. Watson-" the doctor began but three voices rang out to correct him

"_DOCTOR_, Watson."

"Er-right. Doctor Watson, he's in critical condition, his heart stopped twice but we've got him hooked up to a monitor. He's lost a considerable amount of blood-the bullet in his chest just missed his heart, also a miracle he was shot on the opposite side of an old injury, or the scaring and loss of mobility would be more permanent and pronounced than his former injury let on. No major damage to his femur again had the man been any closer and perhaps a better shot-well it would be a different story all together. He is on heavy pain killers to keep him comfortable-"

"Yes, but there is something else?" Sherlock could read this mans expression, his set jaw line, he didn't like the odds, he wasn't one to lose a patient without a fight and something heavy was weighing on his mind. Something definitely not good. Why must he hold it in, why couldn't that be the first thing from this Doctor's mouth, not false hope and the nonsense of good news of what might have beens. Sherlock needed to know what was going on now. More data, pure unemotional facts, no words like miracle and luck-facts.

"He's lost a considerable amount of blood, and though we are running antibiotics through him his fever hasn't responded. It could all be too much of a strain for one mans heart.-" Sherlock snorted in disgust.

"Is this the best surgeon you could come up with brother?" The younger Holmes turned to his older brother rollng his eyes, " Obviously an idiot. A scholarship education how disappointing-" the doctor started to ask how the other man knew he'd gone through school on a scholarship, how the hell could he know, but the curt demand cut through any questions. "Where is he? I want to see him".

"This way sir." One of the trauma nurses offered.

"Lestrade! I want data! I'll be back." Sherlock threw over his shoulder and the exhausted DI staid behind not wishing to see the doctor just yet, not like that. The DI could wait till the man was feeling up to company. He agreed with Sherlock, god help him, probably the only time he ever would. John's heart could never be questioned. He had a strong heart, and a stubborn streak. He'd never allow himself to be taken out by a high fever, and a couple bullet holes. No, he was indeed made of sterner stuff, he'd come around and when he did the DI hoped to have answers for him. For now he needed to make a call to the forensics lab.

"Sherlock, I said to give him room." Mycroft sighed moving to place a hand on his younger brother's shoulder.

"Where the hell were your goons?" Sherlock pulled his shoulder away from his brother's attempted touch, "Mycroft, sentiment doesn't suit you. " he growled, not meeting his older brother's eyes. "Why didn't they see this coming, intervene? What good is it to have government watchdogs if they're just going to fall asleep on the bloody job! Incompetent-"

"Brother I know your angry, please gather your wits and compose yourself. This grieving fishwife act**_ doesn't suit you_**. " mimicking Sherlock's tone on the last words, the rest of his voice he kept even, clutching his umbrella he sighed heavily, _was it exhaustion?_ Mycroft wondered at the weary feeling spilling into his bones, _weary or worry?_ "Listen Sherlock, after you-" he looked at the bed where the doctor was hooked to machines, machines and tubes aiding in keeping the good Doctor alive, he continued watching the monitor with a steady beating heart rate.

"After your hiatus I did exactly what you asked in regards to John. My men kept a watchful eye on all three of them, the doctor, the DI and your landlady. John noticed our presence right away, no doubt picking up on some of your deductive habits. After a week he sent me several-" he halted censoring the details "well, let's just say he wasn't very pleased. After all it was my fault that Moriarty was able to back you into that position. Still I had my men be a little more covert, Lestraude and Mrs. Hudson of course never took notice. Before your return and reemergence into the world of the living, John of course being the man of sentiment he is, apologized to me straight away. I don't even think he'd really been angry at me for a while. Maybe at first yes, a week or so. " Mycroft frowned, this had thrown him and not many could catch the great mind of Mycroft Holmes government servant, and genius off guard.

"Of course he did." Sherlock snorted, he'd moved to a chair near the bed perching, his hands in his dark curls, head against his knees.

"Well, when you returned, he asked me then if I could respect his privacy seeing how all threats had been neutralized. He made a request that I found myself taking into consideration."

"He asked you to stop following him? And you listened?" Sherlock knew exactly this is what his brother was about to confess, confirmed now by the look of culpability on Mycroft's usually stoic face. "You never-in all the damn years I've known you-" Sherlock couldn't speak his voice his great mind couldn't hold a coherent thought. He returned his focus on the pale figure lying unconscious under the scratchy gray hospital blanket.

Too much to process, first Johns hands scarred knuckles from the many scuffles with criminals, moving up his toned arms, other small marks from experiments that exploded, small burns, a scar from a bullets ricochet a few months back. Sherlock pulled his perceptive eyes away, avoiding going any further, knowing that the tubes leading up John's arms and the wires connected to his bandaged chest, were all clues to a critical condition, critical, as in life threatening, as in could result in death. It was easier to not look any further, to keep his eyes from the doctor's colorless face.

"A compromise dear brother. Of course I gave your friend a promise that my men would not bother him, I assured him that my men would not be so much as two blocks from him, we'd leave him alone as requested."

"A play on words." Sherlock bit out. "How like you dear brother."

"Well, although there was no threat to the doctor, still being associated with you and your work made him vulnerable to a degree. So tonight, my men were two blocks down, they'd known when he left the hospital and that's where they realized something went wrong. You see the Doctor unlike you brother is a man of habit and routine. He takes the same route home every time, depending on received requests from an annoying flatmate of course, he'll stop at a corner store, then continue at the same steady pace, home. But tonight-"

Mycroft looked back at his younger brother. "Tonight when he didn't pass the first check point they radioed it in, this my brother is how we found him so quickly. Who knows how long the blasted police would have taken to find him." Mycroft wondered why his voice came out so defensive, surely he wasn't upset, just annoyed at his brothers lack of respect and his unfounded criticisms.

" So have a care dear brother with throwing your accusations around. I see now that it was indeed a mistake to approve such an appeal. Not one I should be making again any time soon. So I suggest we leave the worrying and wasted energy on this ineffectual response of sentiment and emotion, to everyone else. And **_we_** , brother mine, find the culprit."

"Oh, **_I_** intend on finding him." Sherlock growled leaping to his feet from the chair, nearly knocking it back. "Why are you even here?" he snapped, Mycroft was right, and he hated when his brother was right, so Sherlock didn't wait for an answer instead he moved to the bedside, leaning over his friend he whispered

"John, I know you can hear me. You can always hear me. Even when you pretend to be in your room sleeping and I need a pen. So hear this, because I am never one to make false promises." He took a deep breath, why was his throat suddenly dry, his temples throbbing?

Sherlock forced the lump in his throat down, and continued " Its alright John, you'll be alright. Just breathe, just keep breathing-your not alone." With no second glance back Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective made his quick exit. Forgetting Mycroft's presence all together, he had a DI to find, and a lab to utilize.

The older Holmes, waited for his brothers retreating footsteps before he moved closer to the Doctor's still form, a collapsed lung, good thing the shooter was a bad aim, but rage did that to a man.

Rage and an unsteady hand, one to the chest exiting through his shoulder, the recoil causing his aim for the last shots to be off target, one more lodged close to the spine, too close for comfort, one to his left side just perfect enough to nick a lung causing blood and fluid to stagger his breathing, and a fourth having hit him high on the thigh, but through pure surgical proficiency they'd pulled the bullets from the John's body, no other major organs hit, again chance. Mycroft had stopped betting on divine intervention since he graduated primary school. Still, in such times as these-no he refused to give in to his own emotions. He locked it away, pushed it down.

He'd been sure the best doctors were on site within minutes of receiving the call from his men. The least he could do, why the hell had he succumbed to that request in the first place, how could this ordinary man make him feel this guilt. Always guilt. Even when he'd come barging into the Diogenes club seeing the state of John Watson after the fall, his accusatory glare, and angry words. A similar unfamiliar emotion had flooded Mycroft, made him wish to explain himself. And Mycroft Holmes did not take kindly to having to explain anything.

That time John had requested a meeting, by way of text,and though Mycroft loathed texting, and despite his apprehension he agreed to see John.

Stilling himself for an outburst or even violence, but instead he received something entirely different, instead of that angry John Watson, he came face to face with a broken one, one who had thinned considerably, noticeable age lines and dark circles under his eyes. When he spoke, Mycroft had felt uncomfortable with John's apology, it was rare and open and so- so very sincere. Just like the man lying there, under all the tubes and wires, and a crisp white sheet, now he just looked vulnerable, small, nothing like the fighting man that took a defensive position next to the unpredictable Sherlock.

"John-" he didn't understand a lack of words for what he needed to say, nor the obligation to say them. _I m sorry_ felt inappropriate here, because somehow he knew that Doctor Watson would feel uncomfortable with any apology for a seemingly unforeseen predicament. Mycroft's mind wondered back to a past conversation.

_"I just wanted to apologize Mycroft. You've been nothing but a good friend to me and I know despite your methods the reasons behind your actions have always been in the best interest of your brother. Out of concern, sincere concern, I was angry before, I hope you will forgive my harsh words. I did not mean it. I was upset. I know now that you've lost more than me. He was my friend but your brother. I'm here if you need to talk. Not that I'd be much good. Mates?"_ he'd offered his hand then and how could anyone not take it.

That was the past and this was now.

And He couldn't say anything to finish whatever he'd started to, instead he turned without a second glance striding out of the hospital room his mobile to his ear, he needed data.


	4. Chapter 4 Bullets and Butterflies

CHAPTER 4. Bullets and Butterflies

** "**Oh no you don't!" Anderson's nasally voice nearly whistled at the high pitched reserved for those who especially managed to frustrate and permanently aggravate the forensics officer. That someone being Sherlock Holmes and the occasional lab intern or rookie, but mostly Sherlock bloody Holmes. "I will not have you in my lab! I refuse-where is Lestrade?" he growled.

"Oh shut up Anderson! Who else would give me permission to be here! And I assure you I am in no mood for your childish tantrums, not today!" the raised voice was cold and deadly. The whole lab froze eyes wide, expecting the consulting detective to punch Anderson in the face or physically throw him out of his own lab that would be a welcomed sight.

"Not now you two. For gods sake not now!" Lestrade growled, stepping between the two. Sherlock wasn't himself; he had demanded to see John at the hospital and only spent a few minutes in the room with the unconscious man. The taller slightly more intimidating Holmes had surprisingly staid behind a bit longer. "Now, Anderson you said you had something for us. Well out with it then."

"Yes, well-"he turned to his superior officer, ignoring Sherlocks presence all together. "When Sally-" he cleared his throat, Sherlock snorted irritably now "I mean Sergeant Donovan that is. When she brought me the bullets I ran them against any in our computers and came up with this." He handed Lestrade the reports he'd pulled,

"Look familiar freak?" Donovan's voice accused, standing off to the side her arms folded over her chest, in her normal defensive stance.

"Sergeant!" Lestrade warned, he took the files, yes they did look very familiar to him. When Sherlock pulled them from his hands flipping them open, he two paled acknowledging what the Sergeant was getting at.

"Sorry, sir but its true. We asked him to take this case-"

"Offered." Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose, this day went from bad to worse.

"Whatever. The point being we asked the freak to look over the case. We had no leads, nothing to go on, but the bullets matching from the last three victims, well now it's four." Sally bit out.

" At the time there were no i.d.'s. on the victims." Lestrade needed to know why, or what the pattern was.

"Yes, it seemed random at the time, just muggings gone wrong. That's why the good old detective didn't want the case, muggings where what was the word he used Anderson?" The forensics officer jumped at the chance to rub something in the know it alls face.

"Dull" Anderson supplied in a ah ha kind of voice.

"Well we got the ID's in on the the last two, the mugger had taken the wallets but missing persons reports were filed on all three-two were thought to be out of town that's why we had no report of a missing person to go on, and the third was last scene at a medical conference. Guess what they all have in common-"

"Doctors." Sherlock whispered looking of the pictures,

'That's right, now it appears we have a serial killer on our hands one that's got it out for Doctors. "

"Well done Sally did you come up with that all on your own-" Lestrade cut Sherlock off before he could finish.

"Sargent Donovan no one including you saw a pattern. In fact that wasn't even our department, until the pattern was found. " Sherlock scooped up the files, and started for the door.

"I'll be at the morgue, the atmosphere there isn't filled with so much stupid and the small minded seemed to keep their worthless opinions to themselves. "

"Go on freak, figure it out then, if you're so clever. Use your oh so superior brain and find the maniac that should have been caught weeks ago. No matter what you do, this is your fault. All of it, the Doctor wouldn't have-" Sally Donovan was angry, and she knew her words weren't affecting the freak at all, you'd need a heart or a soul to feel remorse and Sherlock Holmes had neither. Still, the Doctor wasn't her enemy, although he chose to alley himself with that obnoxious psychopath.

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Lestrade growled, but Sherlock had already left without a response.

Sally was wrong, that witch couldn't be more right, this was his fault, this-the state that John was in. He'd avoided the crime scene, but he needed to see it, see all of it. Mycroft had procured some footage of John compliments of the government. He watched the man enter the A&E late in the day, he wondered around and than took a seat unnotived in the corner. He was hunting, Sherlock could see the man, the way he watched doctors coming and going.

Then John started to leave his shift over but another doctor approached him, the older man clearly was going to ask the reliable doctor to cover another shift. Though Sherlock read the signs of exhaustion in the way that Johns shoulders slouched a little, his facial expression changing into one of compliance, he'd taken a look around the busy waiting room and agreed to stay on to cover.

Sherlock skipped through the hours of hospital footage, Mr. Black Hoodie was holding his arm at an odd angle, keeping his right arm in his sweater pocket, he was sure to keep his cap low and the hood of his sweater up. How could no one have thought him out of place, and then Sherlock caught the exact moment his friend appeared on the killers radar. He moved to be closer to the hall the Doctor popped out of picking up new charts or escorted the elderly out . Then towards the end of Johns hellishly long shift the man actually approached the doctor. Sherlock concentrated on the silent conversation. Both men seemed to laugh, but he could see by Johns body language he was suspicious, he pointed down towards the cafeteria giving directions no doubt.

"The bastard was waiting for him to get off shift?" Lestrades voice startled the detective how long had the DI been there.

"It would seem so." Sherlock didn't look up, instead he skipped to the footage from the hospital security cameras the ones outside. John was starting on his way home, he paused reaching into his pocket, Sherlock realized it was the exact time he'd said "Pick up milk." John hadn't answered because the killer was behind him, close to any bystander or pedestrian it looked like two men having a friendly chat. Except Sherlock could see how John tensed, looking down no doubt at a gun.

Sherlock knew what would come next, the footage only showed the two men walking into the darkened alley across the empty street. He recalled the killers' words, that voice burned on his brain, the cold of it. John had pressed call, perhaps he squeezed his phone in response to stress or he hoped Sherlock would save him in time. Sherlock need to see the alley, he didn't want to but he had to, for John.

"The serial killer is hunting down doctors for some supposed wrong. The first doctor he murdered would have been someone he knew. He has a prosthetic right arm, and learning to use his left has been difficult, you can tell by how awkward he holds the gun." Sherlock moved past the yellow crime scene tape. Lestrade remaining quietly on his heels no doubt trying to come up with some words of comfort. Sherlock rolled his eyes obviously a bad attempt.

Sherlock stood as if he were John looking at the killer, and by the blood spatter and bullet marks on the wall all of it, he paused kneeling where a puddle of blood had already dried. Johns blood, John was there on the ground left for dead.

"He's not mugging them he's taking trophies. "

"how-"

"John somehow pressed call on his phone I heard the mans words. He said tat doctors think themselves above the rest of us. He's a prosthetic arm, he's lost his right hand or arm that was why his aim was off, he wasn't left handed. But his injury fairly resent was forcing him to retrain himself. So we know he's injured no doubt an ex soldier, he doesn't know John but the other three victims he'd only fired one bullet into, by all means hitting them square in the chest, but when he took Johns Wallet something enraged him. "

"You said he was military maybe he knows the doctor." Sherlock shook his head.

"No-no. He did not, it was the ID Johns ID, his military Id is still in his wallet. The motive is clear, he blames the military for the loss of his dominant arm or hand, and he blames doctors for the loss of his spouse. Perhaps she died in a car accident from the looks of his killing spree fairly recent maybe weeks before the first doctor was murdered. The first victim had to have known the killer."

"How could-" Lestrade cut himself off. "I'll get someone on that. Maybe you should find some rest your no good to anyone dead on your feet." Sherlock closed his eyes, his back to the DI, he could see John no doubt looking for an opening, thinking of minimizing collateral damage, that's what cost him, he didn't take his chance or an opening on the killer, he thought he could talk him down, could insure no one else was accidentally hurt.

"John you idiot. Why cant you think of yourself for once." He whispered this low enough that the Di didn't hear.

He'd recalled his reaction to the file that the DI had offered days ago, he hadn't given it a second thought at the time turning it down. Instead opting for a kidnapping case, a little more interesting.

"Sherlock I don't need to tell you that none of this is your fault nor could you have foreseen any of this. I apologize for Sally's outburst early. We are all a little stressed over this case, this is personal John Watson is one of ours. "

"Cause and effect. " Sherlock whispered, somewhere the flapping of a butterflies wings was causing a hurricane on the other side of the world. He never truly believed this but this was his hurricane and he would stop it, if it were the last thing he did. He could hear the sound of the guns empty chamber and the bastard still pulling the trigger.


	5. Chapter 5 DARK when the LIGHT goes out

**_CHAPTER 5. DARK when the LIGHT goes out_**

Sherlock looked across at Mycroft," This is what we pulled up on him. He has no known address, but I have my men talking to possible contacts, it doesn't look like he has family. Any friends are either dead or no longer in contact. " Sherlock scanned the picture, it was a thin folder, not much. Military record, of course Sherlock had been right about that, wife deceased about a month before the first murder.

The file reported, the disgruntled ex soldier, sent several death threats to the attending physician at the trauma center, due to the belief that the doctor operating on the unstable man's wife, had chosen to save the drunk driver responsible for the accident before the life of the ex soldiers wife. Paramedics on scene resuscitated her on the way to the hospital, however damage was extensive and she didn't make it to surgery.

Sherlock cringed; the man had lost an arm in the war. He was regular army, a corporal. The reason for loosing his arm was the infection caused by the wound not being dressed properly. By the time infection was caught it was too late and the army took the arm. At least that's what the murderer believed, small-minded twit.

Looking for anyone but himself to blame. It was all circumstance, John had been injured after dedicating his younger years for queen and country, only to be shipped home when he was injured and pushed out the door with a feeble pension for a thanks. But it hadn't made him bitter, yes he'd become a depressive, but there was no doubt in Sherlock's mind that had John not met him and found a purpose, he'd of placed the blame inwardly. The Doctor would never target people. And certainly not place the blame of his bad 'luck' on the institution of medicine, and why not the army- he froze **_that was it!_** _**The army**_.

"Do you know where we can find him?" Mycroft's eyes narrowed on his younger brother. "You at least have an idea." _Suspicious bastard, dammit brother stop reading my mind._

Out loud, "I m not reading your mind Sherlock, I m merely familiar with your expressions and that face you just gave was the light bulb face. The _'oh, that's the piece of the puzzle.'_ So tell me-" Mycroft sounded exhausted, Sherlock wondered why he was even up, and still fully dressed where had he been earlier? The fire hadn't the time to warm the room, and his brandy glass he'd just taken out when Sherlock stormed in. If he'd been home longer than he'd be on his second glass. Wherever it had been it was in the city by the lack of mud on his brother's expensive shoes.

"I have several of course none as of yet more likely than the other" he lied turning from Mycroft and his blasted narrowing eyes, slumping now into the expensive antique couch near the door. "How did you even get a picture of his face I've combed over all the footage-"a change in subject.

"Yes well brother, once the other crimes where linked I had cctv footage pulled from those cameras around the approximate time. So I had my top computer tech run the image against any others in our data base then through footage a week prior to the other victims deaths and he of course popped up in all hospitals where the Doctors worked. His first would have been sloppier so I started there, and sure enough, a man fitting his description entered the A&E sat down in the waiting room when the target left from shift this man followed. Stalking the doctor for three days before striking in an empty parking garage." Sherlock glared at the face in the military photograph. Nothing to read, it was a young man's face, before he sold his soul to her majesties army.

"As far as we can tell Sherlock he had no prior contact with John –"

"Yes I know." Sherlock tossed the folder away from him onto the other end of the couch. He clutched at his hair now, his head cradled in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. He had to look away from that man's face, he couldn't think, all he could do was hear the last thing the bastard had said to John. "The only reason he fired so many bullets this time brother was the fact that John was not only a doctor but an army doctor. Two birds one stone as you can guess."

"Yes. Rather unfortunate." Mycroft took a position near the mantel of the fireplace. He didn't offer Sherlock a brandy knowing damn well his younger brother would only snap at him with condescending refusal, declaring the importance of the case as reason why.

Something caught Sherlock's eye, it was a book on the edge of Mycroft's favorite chair, his usual spot in front of the fire, the book looked a bit used. And it was open, face down straddling the arm of the throne like chair, Mycroft just recently had been reading it_. Interesting_. By the condition of the pages this was well taken care of. Sherlock moved then out of curiosity or just the need to be moving, to stay ahead of his whirling emotions, and ahead of these nameless feelings. John could tell him what they were, so he could file them away better, lock them down in the cellars of his mind palace.

Again, Sherlock pushed the thoughts of John away, it was dangerous to think along those lines, so he picked up the brown leather bound book, reading the gold printed title,

"HENRY V" Sherlock held the book sure not to loose the page. "I'd of taken you for a Julius Caesar…fan. Being so long winded."

Mycroft didn't smile, and Sherlock flipped through the pages of the used book, a first edition, well Mycroft was a snob this would be valuable to him. Adding prestige to his private library. Sherlock's train of insults halted so suddenly he almost dropped the book, something had caught his attention while he childishly fanned the pages. It was a paper just a regular note card, stuck in the crease of the book, Sherlock recognized the handwriting.

_**' Mycroft, found this in a shop while in the country. Thought you'd enjoy it. Happy Birthday. -Your friend John Watson'**_

it was true, Sherlock was with John when the doctor bought the old book, Sherlock hadn't really cared to ask why. He stored the small snippet of information in the John file of his Mind Palace, yes John had a whole room dedicated to him. A room that smelt of freshly steaming tea and cooling biscuits.

And of all the dusty rooms there, John's was associated with warmth, sunshine as cliché as it might sound. It was Sherlock's Palace after all, and when ever the detective needed to visit the room, whether to recall a birthday or an allergy, a hands off subject, another ex girlfriend (whom he tried to delete almost as soon as meeting them), Sherlock felt a sense of calm, that was John, calm, patience, honest and his words never held a double meaning there wasn't any reading between the lines with John. Sherlock never had to, and now that room it dimmed and darkened, and this made Sherlock angry, and he felt as if he were slipping. He had to find some safe subject to explore, something randomly dull.

_The countryside, the historical significance of Baskerville-a military base, military soldiers, soldiers-dammit._ He felt himself loosing against the tide of a memory, a memory of a particularly cloudy day. It was a small town just outside of London, they'd gone to take a case, a murdered shop owner and a missing family heirloom.

The consulting detective had flipped his collar up, Watson at his heels; they'd stopped in the shop to talk to the widowed shop owner's. While Sherlock listened to her last account with her dead husband John had picked up an old book, after the uninformative interview Dr. Watson purchased the old book.

And now Sherlock knew what he'd done with it, how could John know that Mycroft was a fan of Shakespeare, well the older Holmes was a rather dramatic government servant.

Once again John surprised him, and Sherlock gently laid the book down. Conscious of Mycroft avoiding Sherlock's dark expression. Instead Mycroft stared intensely at the brown liquid in the crystal tumbler that the loyal government lap dog held in his always steady hands. A gift from some countries prime minister. Sherlock tried to deduce which but it was hard to hold a thought.

The younger man hated emotions, especially the ones that swirled around like a blizzard hazing and dulling his usually sharp vision, turning his stomach, and making him feel like he was falling._ Falling, like flying but with a more permanent destination_.

No, no that memory was pushed back before it had taken root. He didn't need remembering the trials of Moriarty right now. He had to stop this, if he could label these horrible feelings he'd be able to push them down, asking John later what they could be cataloged as. But it wasn't working now, there was no John, he was in the hospital fighting for his life. Why should John a good man lose his life, and at the hand of an idiot with a grudge a mentality of a spoiled child whose favorite toy had been taken. No, no-such things couldn't be allowed.

"Sentiment brother, you were right, it's the sentimental that lose because the emotionless have nothing to lose." He murmured. Missing Mycroft's somber expression.

**_~0~_**

Shawn always went unnoticed; he could sit and scout out people, sorting the pompous doctors from the snobby nurses, the drug addicts, the hypochondriacs, the mentally unstable and then the rest.

Since he'd killed that Army Captain he'd felt a new purpose flow through him, something grand a new direction. Yes, two birds with one stone; it temporarily filled the emptiness in him. That's why he'd picked this hospital, why hadn't he thought of it sooner. To bad he'd only been a simple regular infantry or he'd blow the place up, that could take out more. Sure there were civilians but he'd only be putting them out of their dammed misery. Being unfit and useless was far worse a sentence than death.

He set sights on his next target, this would be fun, and maybe he'd use the whole clip, like he'd done last time. The first couple of times he'd only needed on bullet but it felt better using more. Why should these Doctors receive a single bullet to the head or heart, no- bleeding slowly was a far better death. Let them feel the fear of nearing death and he'd stay to watch this time till the light left the Doctor's eyes. Who was playing god now? Why should they pick who lives and dies, he'd experienced the triage on the battlefields first hand. Now he would have his amends, or at the very least a bit of fun. And it had been a long time since he'd had any fun.

"Oh excuse me Doctor?" an older women called out to a man in a white lab coat, "My husband has been back there a while how much longer-"

"Sit and wait, we are extremely busy and will attend to those in the order they came in or degree of emergency care needed." The Doctor with the dark hair and callous eyes glared down at the older woman in the purple dress.

Shawn's eyes lit up, "gottcha" he murmured. What a prime example, this ass with clipboard brushed the older woman off and disappeared down a hallway. Shawn pulled his black hood over his dark hair. He followed the Doctor the bastard was heading up to have a cigarette or take a lunch. Selfish bastard. Shawn's conscious temporarily faltered thinking of Deb, she wouldn't like this, but Deb was dead, dead because of some damn doctor, oh he'd got him back and the drunk driver too, no one even missed that waste of space.

He hadn't wasted any bullets on that bastard driver, just a quick knife to the back and then across his throat. Slow deaths, that was the way to go, so they suffered and knew what it was to be out of control of your suffering. Like now, like every day his whole being was pain, the lost limb, the ache in his head and in his heart. Yes they should all pay.

"_Because you've stolen my light I will steal yours_" he thought to himself darkly, "_because I can_."


	6. Chapter 6 TO KNOW ME IS HARDLY WONDER

**CHAPTER 6. TO KNOW ME IS HARDLY WONDER PRT1**

"MEDIC!" Captain Watson heard someone call frantic, just over his left shoulder, the sound of trading bullets seemed to die down. Leaving the abandoned village scattered with groans of the injured. So many to fix, so many young men, sons, daughters, wives, mothers, fathers each downed man or women was some ones child or loved one. John ran wasn't afraid of his own death just the deaths he caused by not being there quick enough.

"Get the wounded into that building, we'll use it as a make shift hospital until help arrives! Now!" Captain Watson ordered and he pulled his medical kit from his pack. Rolling up his sleeves, the abandoned schoolhouse was made of brick and stone, the bodies of the injured where brought in. A triage organized the ones who needed immediate attention the ones he could save. The Doctor cringed, this part he hated the most, because no matter how hard he worked there were some things he could not do.

A coldness shot through him, he moved to the first man whose leg stopped short at the knee. He could never get used to seeing what explosives did to a man's body, how easily it twisted and shredded it.

"Hang in there son, we're gonna all get out of here." The younger kid was pale losing so much blood, Doctor Watson worked hard wrapping a belt as a tourniquet above the shredded flesh where a knee used to be, then bandages, tightly wrapped. Saying a quick prayer for the helicopter to arrive soon.

"Captain-" A man's voice from behind him, instinct told him the owner of this voice wasn't supposed to be here.

"You shouldn't be here." Doctor Watson didn't look back, but it caught him that the familiar baritone was oddly calm in the chaos of the desert, the stench of temporary hospital.

"You shouldn't either." A quick reply not even missing a beat. Still John couldn't be torn away from the moans of the dying and injured. Not enough bandages, medicine, painkillers-he couldn't do much but he'd try.

"Doctor Watson?" The same baritone voice, more demanding, definitely out of place "John!"

The school house faded as he turned to meet the questioning grey of his friend, his friend, Sherlock. But the-he shook it off, a hand to his aching chest.

"Hmm-sorry what was that?" John felt a little lost now he was standing in a warehouse?

"I said could you give me your mobile? Remember to breathe." John frowned in annoyance.

"Why cant you use yours?"

"I left it in the flat, I need to text-"

"Now? While we are investigating a kidnapping?" John sounded reproachful. Still he welcomed this banter; he welcomed the cool London air, doing just what Sherlock had said he took a nice deep breath. Cleansing and he forgot what had bothered him earlier. "While on that subject why are we even here?" he looked around as if waiting for some explosion or insurgents, no he wasn't in his army fatigues. This was London, London, England, UK. Home, even still he felt the faint echo of the battlefield.

"I thought that would be obvious-" Sherlock took the doctors phone and punched in a few words hitting send.

"Oh? Is it now?" John sighed irritably it was cold, and his shift started in two hours, his stomach growled reminding him of his missed meals of the day due to this wild goose chase around the damn cold city.

"Did you know your screen is cracked? Really John you should take better care of your things." Sherlock tutted shaking his head.

"Yeah, well maybe the person who caused the crack should buy me a new mobile."

"Yes John that sounds nice." Sherlock's voice was a dismissive murmur.

"Why do I even bother?" John threw his hands up and took a seat on pile of cinder blocks.

"There, we can go now." Sherlock announced briskly, setting off towards the exit.

"That's it? All the running around –"

"John, maybe you should eat before you start your shift, you always get so grumpy when you're hungry." Sherlock didn't even turn around to say this, he only kept walking with those annoyingly long legs.

"I-" again John rubbed a hand over his face. And realized he'd be left behind if he didn't get a move on. _Double time soldier._

"And how does one crack a screen?" Sherlock frowned.

"Oh, well, its easy if one has a lunatic flatmate who insists on experimenting with unstable chemicals. Then decides at an ungodly hour of the morning when a certain drunken sister calls, the same lunatic flatmate answers the phone handing it over to a half asleep Doctor who'd only pulled himself from his bed and two hours of sleep to see where the hell the smell of burnt hair was coming from."

"I hardly burned any hair, merely singed my eyebrows. As for your phone. It nearly vibrated off the table I caught it and naturally answered it. It sounded urgent."

"It was Harry of course its going to sound urgent she's a drunk everything is the end of the world and or urgent. But the fact that you chose that moment to dump-whatever it was onto that peetre dish and light the already smoky kitchen up with a flash, followed by the wave of heat, and a hard push from the force of a small explosion. I dropped my phone, the blast knocked you back onto the floor you cant say it was nothing. You were unconscious for at least five minutes. You're lucky you didn't lose more than your damn eyebrows"

"Hardly anything to be so concerned about. You being a doctor you do know what a mild concussion is." John groaned there was no winning, not against a sociopath. "Oh, and what did your dear sister want at such an early hour?"

"Just the usual drunken recap of the night before. She kept it relatively short surprisingly. Kind of unusual for Harry." John sighed.

"Oh, she really is getting to old to be partying like rebellious teenager."

"You're telling me." John climbed into the cab. "Where are we going? I have work in less than an hour."

"Take away John, we need food. Not everyone can go days on an empty stomach."

"Well you're not everyone. Sometimes I wonder if you're even human. Eating as sporadically as you do. Living off of caffeine and nicotine patches." John hit back.

"I of course I was referring to you." Sherlock frowned. "I ate yesterday."

The cab pulled up to the pub, "Sherlock what are we doing at the pub?"

"The bartender has a lead, I figured you can get something to go while I get the necessary data."

"Yeah, right, good idea." John shook his head. Both men exited the cab and of course John was to pay as Sherlock headed inside quickly.

The irritated complaint on John's lips fell away as he entered the nearly empty pub to find several people crowded at a table, familiar faces, some of his co-workers from the hospital, Molly, Sarah, Listrade, Donovan some of the regular uniformed officer that the Doctor had spoken to on cases while investigating with Sherlock, they'd all gotten used to the doctor and perhaps that's why they put up with the obnoxious consulting detective. It took a moment for their shout of "SURPRISE " to completely register.

"Happy Birthday dear." Mrs Hudson wrapped him in a soft embrace. John was speechless.

"Didn't have a clue did he?" Lestrade grinned at the consulting detective.

"Of course not Lestrade, I was careful to cover any tracks and I have deliberately been misleading all day." Sherlock had a proud look of accomplishment usually reserved for the end of a particularly difficult case.

"You mean to tell me there was no case?" John held a pint that someone had put in his hand, Sherlock only grinned proudly.

"Nope, an elaborate ruse that I concocted with the DI's assistance. Of course on the condition that Donovan could attend." He threw the Sergeant an irritable look.

"How did you know it was my birthday?"

"Your ID. Its printed clearly on your ID in your wallet."

"Yeah but when did you have to –oh never mind."

"Happy birthday little brother." Harriet Watson made her way to her brother's side, embracing him in a tight hug. Her blood shot eyes and the familiar scent of cheap wine poorly covered up by the flavored gum she was chewing, she was hoping he wouldn't think she' already started to celebrate early this morning.

"Harry?"

"Thought I'd pop in when your flatmate here told me what he and your friends were planning I couldn't miss it. Didn't know you knew so many coppers. I thought you were a doctor." John realized then that's why Sherlock had answered his phone. Wanting to take the opportunity to invite Harry.

"Its all very brilliant." Molly handed John a small gift.

"Come on mate take a seat. Sherlock's got the owner to give us run of the place. " Lestrade patted John roughly on his back sure to steer clear of his bad shoulder. Still the motion made him spill the amber liquid of the beer mug onto his shirt front.

"Really?" John wiped at the mess slowly with a napkin, he paused at the sudden sharp pain. Looking at the napkin soaking up the liquid, why did it look so red.

"He owes me a favor." Sherlock shrugged, making his way to John. Taking the napkin from him. "Breathe John. I thought you were hungry."

John forgot about his shirt now, allowing officer Clark to lead him to his seat at the middle of the very large round table. A plate of steak medium well, and chips lightly seasoned put in front of him.

"And no worries John, that shift you agreed to take, well that was part of this too. Didn't want you to become too suspicious" Sarah laughed placing her gift next to Molly's in the middle of the table and everyone joining him now, starting in on the food being served. To the birthday boys amazement even Mycroft dropped in looking particularly annoyed or perhaps uncomfortable.

"Mycroft have a drink or a bit of cake." John offered. The other man smiled tightly.

"No, " his quick glance at his brother "I m on a diet. Anyway I can't stay I have some business in Germany with the Ambassador, but just wanted to drop this off for you John. Happy Birthday."

'Oh, thanks Mycroft you didn't have to."

'I know." He replied "but I figured my little brother wouldn't." John opened the small black box with a simple silver bow. He laughed inwardly imagining Mycroft carefully placing a bow on the small thin box. When he opened it, his mouth opened.

"I figured it would serve a purpose that you had a phone I could better reach you on. Of course I programmed my number into the settings as well as transferred all your data and contacts over. Really John some of your pictures-" John's eyes widened he didn't dare ask Mycroft how he managed to do that.

"Thank you Mycroft that was er-very thoughtful of you." The other man cleared his throat and bid farewell.

"How predictable." Sherlock huffed. "But at least its better than clothes, he used to buy me clothes for Christmas and Birthdays, really what's a ten year old going to do with a silk tie? "

"Check the fabrics integrity to various temperatures and flammability " John provided.

"Excellent John. You deduced correctly. " John had to laugh now by the end of the day he was being led drunkenly to a waiting cab and half carried half dragged up the stairs leaning hard onto the taller flatmate.

"Seriously the best birthday I've ever had. "

"Good."

"Sherlock. I think I may have had a bit too much to drink. But it was all wonderful, who would of thought you, Mr. sociopath could throw such a perfect party. I haven't celebrated my birthday-well really ever."

"I know Harry told me."

"When?"

"A drunken rant that you fell asleep listening to on the couch. So I stepped in for you. Seeing how you'd been exhausted and I know how Harry could get worked up."

"What else did she say?" John narrowed his eyes, his roommate was helping him sit on his bed, taking his shoes off, John fell back.

"She said that the two of you used to throw little surprise parties for each other as kids. "

"Oh, yes. I'd purchase a single cupcake, chocolate was her favorite then, now just a bottle of wine would suffice, and put a candle in the middle, of the cupcake not the wine bottle." He smiled sadly, his eyes closing. "But that was nothing compared to this. And I even received a few gifts, a new phone from Mycroft-"

"Yes, well I m sure you wont mind if I take it apart and remove any bugs and or extra devices my brother would have had implanted."

"Good old Mycroft." John chuckled now lying back the dark haired detective pulled johns comforter over him, "Oh, and don't forget the gift from you, a medical reference guide and of course a new Ipod, I will enjoy Bach concerto in D. "

"Yes well you know what I think of your collection of literature, but I figured I'd get an up to date one seeing how I used the last one in another experiment-"

"No, lets not lie Sherlock I know out of pure frustration you tossed it in the fireplace, claiming it was rubbish." He didn't mention that the classical music of Bach was because Sherlock knew that the violin he played late nights, helped calm John after a particularly nasty nightmare. But Sherlock wasn't always home when John slept, this would be a good substitute on such nights, as rare as it was, because wherever Sherlock went John was usually at his side..

"And the gift Lestrade got you-"

"Ah, yes a leather diary with a fancy pen to take better notes with, Sally's gift was surprisingly practical."

"Really John? I thought it rather predictable-handcuffs and a taser-"

"Well I think she was rather hoping I'd demonstrate their practicality on you."

"Oh how utterly unpredictable and in no way dull just amusing."

"Oh, goodnight Sherlock."

"Yes, John goodnight. And Happy Birthday." John sank down into the warmth and security of his bed.


	7. Chapter 7 Part 2

**_PART2._**

"John?" a muffled voice, it sounded urgent but John clung to the comfort of his room and bed.

"John can you hear me" A Doctor frowned shining a small pen light into the unconscious man's responsive pupils, he gently pulled back the bruised eyelids left, then right. "John?" he continued with a couple other tests. The patient was still fighting a fever that came with infection, finally checking the wounds; they'd had to flush the chest wound and kept the tube in his side to keep the liquid from collecting in the lungs. Blood pressure was lower than the Doctor liked but his heart beat was steady and strong.

**_~0~_**

"Sherlock where is the DI?" John squinted against the dim lights of the empty department store. Something warned him this wasn't right-hadn't he just been-

"Probably took a wrong turn, he'll catch up." Something made John pause, he strained to hear for the tell tale sound of running or panting from a habitual smokers lungs. Well not a smoker anymore.

Sherlock froze hearing the sound of gun fire, and shouting.

"Dammit he must of flanked us. How did he get behind us?" John started towards the noise.

"There is two of them, be careful John the second assailant is the one we were following, he'll have heard the gun fire as well."

"That's right copper down on your knees. I said down!" Lestrade grunted the but of a gun coming down hard on the his shoulder. "Now, do you believe in God-I suggest you start to make-" Greg Lestrade swore under his breath, his ear was still ringing from the exchange of gun fire earlier, this bastard had tricked him using a department store mannequin. Now he was going to be executed here in the women's section, he could see a scantly clad mannequin modeling a pair of red nighties. Well at least the view was good; he'd never hear the end of this from the consulting detective.

John came up short, he could see Lestrade hands on the back of his head, a bit of blood on the side just above the temple. Sherlock watched the expression on his flatemate's face change, he'd seen this before and every time it fascinated him.

No trembling in the mans hand, no sign of any outside thought other than the task at hand. And all happened in the blink of an eye, the sudden clinch of the soldier's jaw, the darkening of the pupils and then the squeeze of the trigger by a man clearly confident in the bullets destination.

Lestrade flinched as his would be executioner shouted in pain, holding his wounded hand. His gun had been knocked out of reach, not that he'd try for it, he had a rather nasty hole to deal with just above his wrist. The DI's instinct had him scrambling for it. His adreniline rushing through him, threatening to turn his stomach.

"Lestrade really." Sherlock's voice was scolding but it was the shorter man Lestrades eyes focused on, he was the one holding a gun.

"You alright?" Johns expression now one of concern, the cold of the soldier gone replaced by the voice of a worried Doctor and friend.

Again Sherlock thought out loud. "Fascinating." The doctor didn't register the other mans words.

"DI? Greg?" Sherlock caught the flutter of disturbed clothing on one of the sale racks, he fired. Lestrade flinched, as did John.

"I'm off. Got a damn embezzler to catch."

"Be home before supper." Lestrade shook his head not even attempting to stop the other man, he knew better at this point it would be useless, "Go on then I can handle this." Lestrade was looking at the blubbering criminal on his side, bleeding profusely from a whole in his meaty hand.

"You sure?"

"Yes, Doctor I am a damned trained officer." John smiled tightly.

"Right then." He turned to leave, the accomplice still squawking in pain. "Put a bit of pressure on it."

"Hey Doctor-" Lestrade called out "Damn good shot."

"It was a lucky one s'all." He replied hurrying after the longer legged consulting detective.

"That man is a bloody doctor?" the would be executioner cradled his hand, groaning. Lestrade didn't answer he only pulled his handcuffs out and then threw a shirt at the man to put on his hand to stem his bleeding.

"Good damn shot." Lestrade muttered.

"John!" Sherlock called out, and John felt a little disorientated, weren't they chasing a criminal. "Keep breathing John." An order. It sounded near by just a bit muffled.

"Sherlock?" John was knocking on his roommates door.

"Sherlock? I'm coming in. Hope your properly dressed or people will talk." He tried the door but it was locked. "Dammit! Sherlock! Open this door." Still no answer, John had been warned by Mycroft that this was a danger night. He'd sensed it, the sudden erratic behavior, as a doctor he knew enough about addiction from a medical stand point, he'd never been inclined to loose himself in any chemical, and defiantly not at the end of a bottle like his father and sister.

He preferred to just tuck it away and ignore his own darkness, hoping it would go away. He hated this flaw in such a great man like Sherlock Holmes but he was that, just a man with his own quirks and darkness. He felt more than people thought, this is why he chose to numb it. But not on John's watch. Sherlock had been doing so well, and knowing all the hiding places of an addict, after all he'd always managed to find Harry's hidden bottles when they were younger, he'd dump them out. What good it did for Harry she was worse than ever.

He kicked the door open then, "Have it your way." Sherlock was laying against his bed, sitting on the floor slumped over, anger then fear surged through the Doctor all at once.

"What did you take?" John crouched in front of his half conscious friend, disgusted by the bruise with a tell tale puncture mark on Sherlock's forearm. There was a syringe on the floor, john picked it up carefully shaking his head. This wasn't right, what he'd read about the drug was that it caused hyperactivity, was this the down, unless-his stomach tightened.

"Damn you! You idiot." Johns eyes scanned the floor, and zeroed in on the pill bottle partially hidden under the bed. "You must of taken more than you intended. Idiot! You've been doing so good, staying clean. This is a bad mix! Uppers and downers." He ranted at rather than to the barely conscious younger man.

"John? You're home early." A slurred voice.

"And a good thing I am. How long have you-" stupid question Watson he's not going to know.

"I might have miscalculated the potency of the hit. Thought your pain killers would maybe-"

"Look at me, stay away. How many did you take?" John fumbled for the bottle, he clasped his eyes shut. Hoping it wasn't too late, he drug his friend into the bathroom and with the skilled knowledge of a physician forced his flatemate to vomit. Afterwards putting him under a cold shower, dressed and tucked into bed. John then turned the room upside down, confident he found any contraband and disposed of it. He knew exactly where his friend had picked it up at, questioning a damn suspect his ass. How could he be so stupid? He'd take care of that in a bit first things first.

The sun started to come up and it peaked through the thin curtains, Sherlock groaned sitting up, wondering when had he gone to bed? He was in his favorite blue silk pajamas, he couldn't remember going to bed. His head throbbed, and damn if his throat wasn't sore, he felt as if he'd done a hundred sit ups, his abdominal muscles screamed out with the action of sitting up. And in the corner of his room infront of the door was John, his head on his knees, that couldn't be a comfortable position at all. Why the hell was he-Sherlock looked at his arm.

"Dammit" he murmured weakly. He remembered picking up the score of blow, sitting, he needed to stop thinking boredom made his skin crawl. The fight with Mycroft, the last case hadn't gone so well, and John was going to be working late. All this made him think, he thought he could take a hit just for one night and drift away into the numbness. No one the wiser. But the drug had been a little more potent than he anticipated, he thought his heart would explode, he couldn't sit still, he found Johns pain pills the ones for his shoulder. Intending to take one only, but nothing had helped not even after the third or fourth one.

"You're an idiot." John was stiffly pulling himself to his feet. He looked pale, and Sherlock could see the collar of his shirt was ripped, had he been in a fight? There was no red knuckles or scrapes suggesting he'd taken a defensive stance, it looked as if he'd only taken a few blows rather than hit back. Looking down at his own trembling hands he could see the bruising on his knuckles and felt sick. Had he taken a swing at his friend?

John wordlessly left the room. Sherlock heard his footsteps down the stairs and out the front door. Fear shot through him, fear that he wouldn't be back. That John had finally had enough. But John didn't understand the boredom; the feeling of his skin crawling is senses needing stimulation. No John couldn't understand. It seemed like half a day had gone by, Sherlock couldn't manage to leave his bed the world was spinning every time he so much as considered leaving the bed. He heard the front door slam, the sound of a kettle switching on, the familiar sound of clattering mugs.

"John?" Sherlock croaked feeling pathetic and something else, he felt ashamed. When he did bring himself to look at John, he realized his clothes looked worse than they had this morning. And when had he received that fat lip he knew for sure it hadn't been there this morning.

"Here's some tea and a few aspirin. Drink it slowly or you'll be sick." John pulled a waste paper basket double bagged next to Sherlock's bed.

"Your face-"

"oh, no worries this was nothing . Just a little run in with an x drug dealer." Sherlock's eyes widened. "I let him know under no circumstances is he to sell anything harder than a lollipop to you. And if I saw him any where near you I'd give him more than a fractured Jaw and some broken ribs." The doctor was serious, but Sherlock could see the way his friends face tensed when leaning to his left. The drug dealer known as Boxer, had gotten a few punches in. Still John wasn't a big man, nor was he intimidating a man. "That goes for you. I catch you being stupid like this again, I swear I'll let Mycroft commit you. Hell I'll sign the damn orders. And I'll move out Sherlock, I'll never look back." Sherlock couldn't tell if this was an empty threat but the set of his friend's sore Jaw, and ruffled forehead, he wasn't lying he was telling the truth at least the moving part.

"I am truly sorry John. "

"Sherlock I don't want to hear it. All I want is a promise that you're done. And I want to know where the rest of the stuff is hidden."

"I assure you that was the only stuff I purchased and I swear John I wont touch it again." John sighed.

"I believe you. Now drink and slowly. I'll make you some dry toast if you keep this down." Sherlock looked at his flatmate from over the brim of his cup. John left the room shortly after Sherlock took his last drink with no mishaps. They never spoke about it again. John Watson once again surprised the consulting detective.

"You are a wonder John Watson." He'd murmured to no one particular. Never having experienced someone outside control freak, government stoolie big brother that is. Only out of a sense of duty of course. But John cared, truly cared to the degree of fighting a drug dealer to warn him off of his friend. No, John was what a friend should be, patient, protective, loyal and of course his friend. Although Mycroft who never misses anything caught the fight between the known street dealer and the ex addicts roommate, he knew enough to understand John's motives. Still, John hadn't gone to directly to Mycroft and rat the addict out. No instead he'd stayed to insure he was alright. His phone then buzzed.

_**Yes he is. You and I will be talking soon brother.-MH**_Sherlock scowled at his phone.

**_~0~_**

"Sherlock?" he was standing in the hallway leading to a lab just to the right of the hospital morgue. The plate of toast was replaced now by a cane?

"John. I said this way." It was his old acquaintance Mike, moving towards the lab's heavy door. But wasn't he just- "You alright John? I mean if you're not up for a meeting-"

"oh, no. I m fine. Lets go then." John frowned at the can he was holding, a cane, it annoyed him beyond anything for some reason. Before he could dwell on it he'd been lead into the lab.

"Oh, " John looked around "a bit different from my day." He spotted a tall dark haired man in a fitted suit inspecting a slide. Mike then moved to the opposite side of the table just across from the taller man.

"Haha you have no idea." Came the bulkier mans friendly reply. Why did this feel familiar? John frowned again looking at the damn cane; he felt like hurling it across the room but didn't wish to cause a scene.

"Mike" the stranger spoke and John's attention focused now on the fair skinned man. "can I borrow your phone there's no signal on mine?" Why did this all feel so familiar.

The smell of chlorine filled the air and John felt sick. The lab was gone and he knew this place, remembered this conversation. That sing song voice was one that usually haunted his nightmares. Jim Moriarty…consulting Criminal.

John knew now this was a dream he couldn't hear any of the words the two dark haired geniuses traded. He only knew he definitely would like to wake up and not relive this one. Besides he knew what came next, what always came after this nightmare, the falling. Even now knowing it was staged it still haunted the retired army doctor. Reminding him just how very human Sherlock was.

Someone had to keep an eye on him, when left to his own devices he managed to come up with some pretty dangerous or very 'not good' plans to execute all his own. "idiot" he grumbled.


	8. Chapter 8 DREAMS AND REASONING

_**THANK YOU ALL FOR YOUR REVIEWS, AND HELPFUL TIPS.**_

**CHAPTER 8 DREAMS AND REASONING**

"John, I found him. Quite easily. I wanted you to know that. I'm really not sure why I'm telling you this, or if you can even hear me. I don't even know why I'm wasting my time here. I would normally ask you for more data concerning this peculiar urge to recall our recent misadventures. The whole Danger night experience-Well I always do my best thinking out loud. I can see by the wastebasket that Lestrade has been in to see you. He of course would brave the hospitals sad excuse for coffee. Probably assuming you aren't going to wake up. Typical. "

Sherlock paced hands balled into fists shoved into his pockets, back and forth clearly agitated, his voice conversational but sharp as if impatiently waiting an answer from the still form on the bed.

"No doubt wanting to thank you for those instances you showed up in just the nick of time. Most likely recalling his boring perspective of that department store shooting. Where if you remember he only slowed us down, and nearly got himself killed. Did he tell you that he at least would go out with the images of red knickers dancing before him. Really, so juvenile. Still that is something you would laugh about. And between the two of us he underestimates you, that being a prime example, that day Greg Lestrade was introduced to another side of Doctor John Watson." another sigh.

" How these simple minded- John are you even listening. It's really rude to ignore me while I am genuinely acknowledging your valor. This is really starting to become a bit ridiculous. This whole coma thing. That government trained monkey Doctor Green he called himself, if that's his real name? With his scholarship education, a stint in the military, nothing as remarkable as yours. I can tell by the lack of scars, or burns on his hands, he's never seen battle. And by the way he drinks his coffee, the closest to war he ever came was working at the military hospital in Germany, just enough time to get his name out, and network to a higher paying job. One where he treated politicians and high government officials". Sherlock took a deep breath, clasping his eyes shut.

"As I was saying, he has said that you should have come around by now. Well if not fully awake at least a brief lucid moment, something. Instead you selfishly lay there ignoring those who do wish you to wake up. Mycroft has probably placed a listening device somewhere on your hospital gown. His security precautions being on high alert. "

The dark haired consulting detective in his impatience leaned over his friends bedside, scrutinizing the lack of frown lines, the doctor, appeared younger, at peace in whatever place or dream he dwelled, now Sherlock found himself wondering what John could be dreaming about.

Surely nothing could be more important than waking up to hear how cleaver Sherlock had been. Sherlock resisted the urge to pull John's thin eyelids back, wondering if maybe the sleeping doctor could be roused that way. It always worked when Sherlock had an idea and needed an extra set of hands at two am, John being the only logical choice.

Flicking at John's eyelids sometimes did the trick when the Doctor was intent on ignoring the consulting detective's completely reasonable request. Sherlock shook his head, feeling like a fool, a lost fool, with an irritated huff he whirled around to leave, heading for the door, coming up short as if against an invisible barrier. His jaw clinched and mouth set in a determined frown.

"Oh, one more thing." He growled approaching John's bed. "You and I are going to have a chat about Mycroft. You are not allowed to be friends with him John. He doesn't know how to treat a friend, and any way we both know the British government doesn't make friends just puppets to move and control. Besides you're a better man than me. Therefore your status well surpasses Mycroft's. Don't sell your self to the devil John. Really you're lucky to have me. I will of course let him down gently." Taking a deep breath Sherlock clutched the side rail of the bed.

"I-listen John. I'm sorry. This was my fault. I should have taken the case like you asked. I was just so distracted by the lack of stimulation. It nearly chokes me John, I've explained it to you many times. Even when you're in Dublin or asleep in some hospital bed. This was my fault I know it, I know it-and it grates on me, but I'm going to make it right John. And you're going to wake up and tell Mycroft to leave when he comes to pester you. Really John, I was only gone three years. Surely befriending Mycroft is kind of a severe self imposed punishment. Or, perhaps your way of getting back at me. Maybe a bit of both? Why else would you choose to remain acquainted to him, how the hell did you know he liked Shakespeare?"

"Idiot. Mycroft is your brother." That's what John meant to say, hearing Sherlock's as a matter of fact tone. Why the hell was his insomniac flatemate coming in to wake him at an ungodly hour? Probably needing an extra hand in some weird experiment that required a fire extinguisher. He groaned, trying to open his eyes, why did they feel so heavy-the tightness in his chest threatened to suffocate him.

Sherlock thought he'd imagined it, the flutter of John's eye lids, the whisper barely audible "Idiot. misorother." Whatever that meant. No definitely not his imagination, he clearly heard the word 'idiot', John was trying to lift a hand to his face, his eyes open now, trying to focus on his surroundings. Well he was right Mycroft was an idiot. Proof that John was coming back mind intact.

John's face was itchy, he tried to bring his hand up to scratch at the irritation just under his nose. Damn his hand felt so heavy, had he slept on it funny, his fingers touched something now, a tube, the doctor in him registered it right away and even then it confused him.

His eyes blinked open, he tried to dispel the sleep, but they refused to focus on his surroundings. Slowly his sense ran a quick inventory, mouth dry, eyes sensitive to light, "ugh" he winced. Headache, great he must have had one to many at the pub, explains his foggy memory. No, no that's not right, there was a small tube just under his nose to supply him with extra oxygen, the cold sourness of it wasn't hard to recognize, still anything was better than the stench of chlorine. He was after all a doctor, now why the hell was it so damn bright? The sound of a monitor a steady beeping, he turned his head slowly, trying to focus on the source.

"John?" It was a familiar voice, ok, that wasn't a dream Sherlock was here, he sounded relieved.

"Great, " John's voice sounded raspy like sand paper, taking a moment he swallowed which didn't help at all with what felt like cotton balls in his throat. No, it was a side effect from the oxygen always dried out your mouth and nose. "Great, what did you poison me with now?" he groaned, taking a deep breath was a mistake, a sharp pain shot through him, whatever heavy boulder sitting on top of his chest wasn't helping.

"S'rlock-get this off me I can hardly breathe." Still raspy.

"John, that's the bandages, they have to be tight to keep the wound closed. You've been shot."

"Shot?"

"Yes John, shot. I do hope I wont have to keep repeating myself."

"Oh, sorry." John turned his head slowly, for fear of nausea that he was becoming increasingly aware of. Then the words sunk in, _shot, _"Shot!" he tried to sit up now.

"No, no Doctor Watson, lets not do that." The voice of a nurse, he knew the tones that some nurses used, especially on difficult patients, condescension was not a favorite of his.

He couldn't focus on her face, the lights were to damn bright, it was making him sick, the pain in his chest ripped through him, yes. This was a familiar hurting; no one ever forgot the feeling of being shot. He gasped, jolting from the intensity, the heavy sharp overwhelming pain. Someone eased him down, only making him want to push whatever pressure sat on his chest away, it was increasingly becoming harder to breathe.

"John. Doctor Watson. I need you to calm down." Unfamiliar, demanding, obviously a Doctor, but not one John knew. Strong hands restrained his arms.

"Nurse-" Dr. Green, called over his shoulder, "Nurse!" The red haired nurse was arguing with the tall dark haired man, who was trying to move towards the now struggling patient.

Disorientation usually caused some trauma patients to become a little combative. And having PTSD, well that was a bad combination. Maybe something to calm the upset patient -"hydromorphone, and lorazapam! 5cc's"

Sherlock stepped around the mad woman whom was trying to order him out. Stupid woman knew nothing, John was disoriented, PTSD be damned, he'd seen John like this when he was startled awake from his night terrors.

"John." Sherlock ignored Doctor Green's (government minion) angry look. "John, you need to calm down. You'll only exasperate things. You've been shot but you are now in the hospital." He put knew better than to put a hand on his friend's shoulders, that was too aggressive, instead Sherlock grabbed Johns hand. "John." He continued, he squeezed gently until the struggling John Watson seemed to squeeze back. "John, you're alright now. Just a couple bullet holes. Nothing to worry about. " Doctor Green took the opportunity to push the iv drugs, a particularly strong pain killer and then something to supplement.

"Sher-" John felt the sudden rush of warmth and something else the metallic taste of a barbiturate, he felt like he was falling in on himself, falling in and he clutched to the hand that held his. And then the feeling moved into something more fluid, warmth his heavy eyelids strained to remain open. .

"John. I wont be far. Just rest now, perhaps it was a bit too soon to wake you. You've made a mess of your bandages."

"No, I'm fine. Tell me." He croaked. "how-" The hired help, aka Doctor Green shot Sherlock a warning glance, not wishing to upset John. But the Detective knew his friend, knew John better than any of these fools. So he adjusted the plastic tubing that had been situated under the blond's nose providing the injured man with extra oxygen, then he spoke without condescension, or those annoying tones in which grandmothers spoke to their grand children.

"Well John it seems you were simply targeted by a psychopath. On your way home from work." Doctor Green's eyes widened shocked by the casual tone this news was delivered in.

"I have a way of attracting them." He wheezed, grinning, up with glassy drug addled eyes. "Did you catch him? I can't remember a whole lot-"

"You rest John. "

"Sherlock-"

"Yes John." The nurses were readjusting the blood pressure cuff and various other electrodes and wires.

"Don't-" the drug would overtake the already exhausted John Watson soon.

"John? "

"Don't do anything stupid. Promise."

"John I am a genius, hardly capable of _doing anything stupid_." Sherlock knew this was just a delay, a breath more and the drug would overcome his friend altogether and the consulting detective would technically have nothing to lie about.

Just as he calculated, Doctor John Watson sank back into a different kind of rest, one that would be dreamless. Sherlock knew John would be awake by the time he got back, and none the wiser.

"He doesn't like to be talked down to Doctor Green, have a little professional courtesy. This man is one of the best military doctors I know. He is also my friend. You understand who my brother is, so I obviously wont have to threaten you. He doesn't like pain killers or drugs, do what you must to keep him comfortable but I suggest you give him an option before drowning him in sedatives." Doctor Green didn't reply, not that the younger Holmes, (just as intimidating maybe a little more menacing than the older Holmes) waited for any answer. The man merely swept out of the room dark coat in hand.

"Just, please page me when he wakes up, we can keep him comfortable but-" Dr Green paused remembering something, where'd his white coat go? It was just there on the back of the chair, he'd only removed it to give him better mobility in restraining the patient, as well as not wishing to get blood on it. "God, I hope this favor is the last I'll owe." He grumbled, missing his warm office, and gourmet coffee.


	9. Chapter 9 ANOTHER ROOF ANOTHER HOSPITAL

**_CHAPTER 9. ANOTHER ROOF ANOTHER HOSPITAL_**

Shawn moved quietly, far enough behind the tall dark haired figure in the white coat. Crisp, clean well taken care of, as if such a coat would reflect the soul of its owner. No, this one didn't have a soul, and his clean starched coat was how Shawn could tell. If this man were truly a man of medicine, he'd be up to his elbows in the byproduct of sickness and injury. This coat would have stains, even after several bleaching, this offensive garment would have pen marks on the pocket from a pen moving in and out of the owners pocket to make several notes, to prescribe medicine or pain relievers.

None, what it said about the Doctor with the dark head of wild curls was that he cared about money and status. Shawn noted then the cup of steaming coffee in his hand, not even good enough for the hospital tar. This pompous ass had his own mug. A newspaper was tucked under his armpit; they stood now on the hospitals roof.

Shawn guessed right a cigarette break, this doctor moved to the smooth ledge of the roof placing his paper and his coffee down, still unaware, his other hand rummaging into his expensive trouser pockets for a cigarette. Unknown to this unsuspecting Doctor it would be the last, how fitting, all so poetic, maybe the best mark yet, Shawn's hand itched to stain that white coat with the owners own blood. Then the target spoke.

"You know why you are an idiot?" a deep baritone voice asked, the owner didn't even bother to turn, he only remained facing the edge of the roof, looking up at the starry sky. Shawn was caught off guard, was the target talking to him? "Well do you?"

"S'cuse me?" stepping out from the protection of the shadows, curiously moving forward, his good hand clutching the 9mm in his black hooded jumper's front pocket.

"You heard me. Your hearing wasn't damaged just your arm." Annoyed now. Instinctive, fight for flight bells were ringing, telling the ex soldier to run, to turn and run. This man could be the devil himself. But the resolve in him refused to be shaken, he wasn't a coward-

"Yes you are." The devil in the white coat countered. No. No. Men can't read minds, and devils didn't wear white coats.

"Are what?" he challenged pulling the weapon free of his pocket.

"A coward." The doctor moved to take a slow sip of his coffee, then continued nonchalantly "A sad little broken soldier boy looking to blame everyone for his follies except the one person who truly is responsible. Should I go on?"

"Why not Doc, I've got time. It's a nice night, s'pose you're on break. Don't think no one will disturb us up here. After we're done you can beg for your life, I'll still shoot you till I have no bullets left and I'll leave. It'll take them a bit to find you up here I'm sure."

"Very well, just try not to interrupt it gets annoying and will only put us both behind on time." Shawn scrunched his face, what the hell was he going on about?

"You've never amounted to much, your parents are dead. You married your childhood sweetheart, just as broken as you. Maybe it was love, or convenience or perhaps she was the only one to ever look at you like you were worth more than the factory mud on her shoes. I could go into how your daddy never loved you and mummy didn't care. But I guess I haven't really all night to spend up here."

"How-wait what did you say about Deb?"

"Deb? That was her name, right. Don't interrupt please." The doctor took another sip of coffee his back still turned. "She died in a car accident, that drunk driver hit her car, funny her car had a suitcase in the back seat. If Deb hadn't died she'd of gotten away from you. You who went away to war in hopes of finding honor, and respect ect. Only to lose an arm. An arm that you blamed on poor excuse of a surgeon, his inattention."

Another drink of the warm liquid, " I'll give you that, they had to take the arm or let the arm take you. Still you could of accepted this, come home a hero started a life with your sweet Deb. But trying to retrain your left hand; to eat, pick up a paper, and hold a gun, whatever. It was all too much a challenge for a weak child like you. So instead of accepting this challenge as others in similar positions have, you-you sit and pout. Take it out on your young wife. So much so that when she can't hide her bruises she waits for you to leave. Torn between her fear of you and fear for her life. Packs a few things gets into her little red car, only to have her retreat cut short by a Mr. Archie Rollings. A drunk whose cliché life story is rather boring so I won't recount it. But you took care of Archie, right after the doctor of course. "

"How?" Shawn tried to process what he was hearing was this man truly the devil?

"Its funny you would think that, I once stood on another roof with another murderer, who thought I was an Angel." chuckling now, "But I think you're more right. I do stand on the side of the angels but he made the mistake to believe I was one of them. There are no angels."

"Naw my Deb was angel! An ANGEL!" the doctor turned finally and his expression was bored.

"I'm sure she was your moral compass, forgiving your indiscretions your manic and depressive episodes. All of it, she staid trying to help you find your way back to a good path, until she just couldn't take it anymore. And then some drunk driver took her away, before you could make amends. Still, you blamed the doctor that couldn't save an already mangled girl, brain dead on arrival. Well I guess a brain dead girl would be at your intellectual level."

"Shut up!" Shawn growled another step closer, "Deb was an angel! She wasn't leaving me! She loved me. And if I am so dumb how the hell did I get away with all those other murders. Huh? If your so clever, answer me that, and then add yourself to the list of the dead."

"Right, that makes wonderful sense." This chatty doctor moved his gaze skyward once more, his face pinched as if he were trying to recall something he'd forgotten.

"Your insane." Shawn chuckled "Bloody crazier than me my guess."

"Am I?" a devil's reply, laced with cool hostility, it was distracting to Shawn that this Doctor refused to be afraid or even interested.

"Hello, mate. I've got a gun and I'm going to kill you. The least you could do is pay attention. And look at me, while I do it."

"I've been dead before, and I can't say this is the first or last time some predictable fool has held a gun on me, and with a steadier hand and better aim, I might point out."

"You sure talk a lot for a soon to be dead man. None of the others talked as much, they all just blubbered. Or asked why? And you know what I tell them? I - "

"_Because I can_. Not exactly original. Boring."

Shawn wasn't happy about being cut off again by this lunatic in a white coat, but the internal warning bells in his brain started to ring louder.

"How did you-maybe you are the devil himself. Don't matter, my aim wont be off as close as I am." Shawn forced his now slightly trembling hand to still.

"I only have one more question." The doctor sighed still cupping the mug in his cold hands.

"Naw, I'm done talking mate" said through clenched teeth.

"Where is his wallet?" so calm a question, as if asking for a light.

"What?"

"Your living from place to place only stopping to check your monthly pension with the bank card they issued you. Funny you blame the army but aren't above their charity."

"That money and more is owed to me for what they took!"

"Yes, well as I was saying. You don't have a home where you stay longer than a night, maybe a run down squalor of a hotel room. Nothing you'd keep any valuables in. As I'm sure your less honorable neighbors in such a place would break into your room cut your throat for a pack of cigarettes let alone a duffle bag possibly holding some unknown treasures. Whatever gets them to their next high. So, you have an army issued duffle most likely green and it has your valuables a few keep sakes a couple photographs, and the wallets you have as trophies. So, I'll ask again where is _his_ wallet." A demand now, dripping in impatient

"How-" Shawn shook his head, he _was_ conversing with the devil himself.

"I really don't like to repeat myself. "

"Are you going to rob me? This is a first." He chuckled but not dropping his gun although there wasn't anywhere to run, no one to help. Realization hit him then, and a grin spread over his face. "Oh, so that's it then isn't it? Which one was your mate? Was it the first one, I hear his body staid on a slab for weeks before someone noticed he was gone, or the second one he had an interesting accent, not quiet British but not quit French-"

"Swiss." The Doctor rolled his eyes.

"Makes sense, Swiss then. Lets see their was that doctor in Cardiff his funny little bow tie-ah I know, it was the Captain, yes I could see that with you working in a veterans hospital and all."

"What a nice deduction." The dark haired man gives a frosty reply eyes twinkling now, and the coffee mug out of his hands.


	10. Chapter 10 GOOD MEN HAVE RULES

**_CHAPTER 9. GOOD MEN HAVE RULES_**

"What a nice deduction." The dark haired man gives a frosty reply eyes twinkling now, and the coffee mug out of his hands.

"Doesn't take a genius. So he's your mate then. I can't say I remember too much about him. Oh, well he wasn't anything special no hard feelings really. Wrong place at the wrong time. I should thank him, he helped me find my purpose, he gave me clarity."

"Interesting, I could say the same about him as well." The deep voice dropped down a chill ran up Shawn's spine, he took a step back. "It's a funny thing the rules good men have. They then measure all others by the same standards, thinking all men can be saved. " said with the same icy tone, steady impatient and dark.

"Good men? So your dead mate was a good man? Do you think you're a good man?" a cynical laugh " Don't fool yourself we both know that doctors get to sit back away from the horror tucked safely behind secure lines, they spend just enough time to patch em up and send em out, or write off the ones they deem already gone. I went to war with a lot of good men you know what it got them, no where but dead!"

Shawn pulled the trigger, he felt something hit him hard in the side, a familiar twisting pain, adrenaline had him moving away from the devil, no where to hide, he fired again and again until his gun only clicked a sure sign it was empty, he stumbled backwards, and the figure in white had ducked past his poor shots, the coat flapping behind him like the wings of a bird-

"You had me wrong!" came the baritone voice, his face covered by shadow, all the fallen killer could see now was a hand remarkably steady raised and the gun pointed right at the downed ex soldier. " All wrong. You see, good men stand beside their friends to remind them of the rules. " Another shot, Shawn felt the bullet tear through his upper thigh. He cried out unable to move, his damn useless prosthetic twisted at an angle, he couldn't even scoot back.

"Who are you? Why?" Shawn cried out.

"I am a good mans friend." Sherlock kneeled now, grinding the 9mm into the center of Shawn's chest right at the heart, Shawn waited for the finish, but instead quick hands moved over him, patting at his pockets. Pulled the contents of his left pocket out. Shawn had forgotten that he'd kept one of the wallets on him. How would this man know? How could he know?

Sherlock found what he wanted the wallet he knew to be John's, blood stained the outside, it wasn't the foul creature whom he kept his gun pushed into, no it was John's. He pulled the gun up to turn it in his hand bringing the butt down hard cracking the skull of the downed man. "And because I can."

"Police!" DI Lestrade burst through the exit to the stairwell, he'd heard the gun fire feared the worst but instead he caught a familiar figure standing over a downed figure in a black hoodie.

"Late as usual." Sherlock tossed at the panting Lestrade now lowering his gun.

"Sherlock what the hell! You said Barts! That he was going to be at Barts, this isn't Barts hospital! It's a good thing Mrs. Hudson had a mind to call and let me know what you were up too." He moved cautiously towards the still form. "Is he?"

"No, he's alive unfortunately."

"He's shot."

"Yes Detective Inspector as observant as ever I see."

"Sherlock-"

"He'll live, I only fired in self defense you'll find his weapon is the same used in all of the attacks, and here I also took the opportunity to record his confession on my phone. You know the dramatic type so ready to spill the whole plot with boring dialogue. The usual drabble, I'll text you the audio file. That and the green duffel bag in the A&E next to the water fountain is his, you'll find the ID's of the other victims. I suggest you get a doctor up here before he loses more blood I fear I may have struck his lung, I don't know I'm a terrible aim under stress." His face remained expressionless, all except his eyes, Lestrade could see disappointment there, as if the consulting detective had been disappointed that the killer would live.

"He'll face justice Sherlock, if he lives. You've given us more than enough evidence. I'll need a report-" three PC's exploded out of the roof entrance doors followed by two medics carrying a stretcher.

"You know where to find me." Sherlock started to head towards the door.

"Sherlock dammit! Wait!" but it was too late the taller man wasn't listening. The DI's phone buzzed and he noted the audio file had been sent, well at least that's done. Lestrade decided he could catch the rest of the report when headed back to the hospital. Once he was finished here, maybe John would be awake by then. Hopefully he wasn't in the hospital too long, Lestrade had a feeling without the blogger to keep the excitable consulting detective on the right path, he'd jump track and tear the city down with him.

"Lestrade, make sure Mrs Hudson makes it home when you're through harassing her." Lestrade swore under his breath, in a dramatic flash the consulting detective was gone the tale of the white coat streaming behind him like a cloak.

"Bloody mess. All right get him downstairs." he growled at the PC's.

Once outside the building Sherlock took a deep gulp of air, his hands were shaking even thought he'd put the gun away. Adrenaline, wonderful, just what he needed to be slowed down he wanted to be back before John woke again. His phone vibrated in his pocket, he half expected the DI's name to show up on the screen, and instead it was a text.

_Get in the car. He's asking for you.-MH_

Sherlock didn't have time for an impulsive text back, the black car with tinted windows pulled up beside him and he slipped in next to a brunette with the annoying habit of texting, as usual she held her small blackberry not even looking up to acknowledge him. He then noted his bellstaff coat on the seat between them. His phone vibrated an alert from an incoming text.

_You left it in the waiting room. While playing dress up.-MH_


	11. Chapter 11 Answers, Tea and Biscuits

**Chapter 10. Answers, Tea and Biscuits (Epilogue)**

After several weeks in recovery and irritating physical therapy Doctor John Watson worst patient ever, was allowed to return home.

Accompanied by his unusually doting flatmate, John happily returned to 221B, home at last. The stitches partially healed though still sore, making the stairs a rather painful feat.

To his surprise the consulting detective at his side took his crutches in one hand and placed his left arm securely but gently around Johns waist, John was able to lean into him, the duo ascended slowly without much trouble.

Once inside Sherlock eased John into his usual seat.

"Thanks." John winced leaning back, a bit of sweat collecting on his forehead he tried to ease his breathing, an unsteady hand pressing into his aching chest.

"Do you need a pain pill Doctor?" Sherlock's grey eyes scanned his friends face for any other signs of pain so he could gage the degree and therefore how many pills the Doctor would need.

"No, no I'm alright. Just sore. Besides I cant stand the damn things, makes me feel queasy and I hate the drug-induced stupor. I'll be fine. No worries. Don't you have something to do today; I thought I heard Lestrade say something about a new case for you?"

"Oh, yes. It was solved just by a glance, typical maid did it and the butler helped. Boring."

"Oh, that's too bad." John reached for the paper that his flatmate tossed into his lap, Sherlock's gray eyes narrowed on the front door.

Sherlock frowned moving to the middle of the oddly tidy living room, "Sherlock what is it?" It was John's turn to study the annoyed look on the taller man's face. There was a loud knock at the door, steady, strong and polite.

"Mycroft." Sherlock grumbled not bothering to open the door.

"Come in Mycroft." John chuckled than winced. The older Holmes brother entered, scanning the small room, as if checking for possible hidden dangers. "It is good to see you again Mycroft. Everything alright?" John asked politely, a smile catching the corner of his lips as Sherlock rolled his eyes in irritation.

"Why are you here? " Sherlock huffed.

"Oh, I thought I'd stop in and visit my brother and his friend. No other reason." an irritated sigh.

"Go away. You're not staying. John needs his rest."

"Tea Mycroft?" John asked smoothly.

"Yes, I'll take a cup."

"Sherlock-" but without another word the younger Holmes was in the kitchen clanging the kettle around tetchily.

"It's good to see you're out and looking well Doctor."

"I m getting there. I've been meaning to thank you."

"Oh?" Mycroft didn't meet John eyes, instead he leaned his umbrella against the low chair he now sat in. (Sherlock's) and wiped at some imagined lint on his expensive black suit Jacket.

"Yes, after Sherlock returned Doctor Green's lab coat" John paused recalling the look of complete horror when the middle aged doctor was handed a wrinkled, blood stained coat, it had taken everything in the injured ex soldier to keep from laughing as Doctor Green huffed snatching his precious coat from Sherlock turning to march out of the private hospital room, grumbling about favors and ladders "I was told you'd arranged for the good surgeon and of course the private quarters. I do appreciate that and will try to pay you back"

"Nonsense John! Mycroft owes it to you. After all it was his inattention that caused you to be shot!" Sherlock yelled from the kitchen. John frowned looking slightly embarrassed but Mycroft took the opportunity to ease the Doctors conscience.

" Doctor Watson my brother is right, there is no need. However if I should require your services and that of your always so receptive flatmate, I only hope I will find an ally in you."

"There it is John, you've just sold your soul to the devil, no, even worse, the British Government." Sherlock held a mug of hot tea to his friend and begrudgingly one to his brother. Moving to the window picking his violin up and his bow he began to play a tune, the doctor recognized this was one Sherlock had composed himself, over the course of a few months.

John laughed then, despite his stitches and the hot liquid in his cup sloshing over the sides onto his shirt. He put a hand to his aching chest, but it was a good pain, and both brother's looked at him startled. He was home, and glad to be there.

"Well I must be going I have a meeting with a certain Russian-well the details will only bore you. Thank you for the tea brother, John glad you're home." Sherlock put his violin bow down and scowled at his brother. John sipped his tea slowly, noticing once the mug was empty that the pain in his chest ebbed slowly from a heavy restrictive pain to just a dull pin prick, he was feeling a little drowsy now. Maybe the trek up the stairs had taken more out of him. Except the tea had a funny after taste to it, something familiar.

"S'lock" he mumbled his tongue felt heavy, clumsy.

"Yes I know, but the worthless Doctor Green, government minion, said if you felt pain you were to take the pain pills. You still have a ways to go, no sense in making a difficult time of it. Besides I only put two capsules in your drink, one in Mycroft's." he frowned noting the full cup his brother hadn't even taken a sip out of.

"S'lock-"John frowned his head lolling back.

"Don't worry he didn't even drink it." He made a face, then seeing his friend starting to fade, he moved to pull a blanket over the drugged Doctor, than moving a small ottoman over to prop John's legs up, careful of his bandaged thigh.

He smiled to himself knowing that the man who caused this discomfort was worse off, having similar injuries, what a coincidence. Lestrade had pointed this out suspiciously. Sherlock then argued that he hadn't shot the man in the chest therefore it was in fact all a coincidence that the killer's injuries almost mirrored John's.

Lestrade however doubted that, especially since Sherlock had accidentally given the wrong location, he had a sneaking suspicion that he'd shown up just in time to prevent a possibly fatal injury on the murderer, but couldn't be completely sure.

"Oh, he's already asleep, well I made some fresh biscuits John's favorite. I'll just leave them on the table dear." Mrs. Hudson had come in without Sherlock noticing but the scent of warm biscuits called him to attention as she put a plate down on the cleared table, then just as quietly went to take Johns discarded mug and the full cup of Mycroft's untouched tea "I'll just put these in the sink. "

His phone buzzed with a text he rolled his eyes after reading it.

_Nice try.-MH_

_Get your own friends.-SH _

"Yes thank you Mrs. Hudson. And I never did get to praise your marvelous performance at the hospital." The older women straightened her shoulders proudly.

"I was happy to help dear. Besides you know I was once an extra in-"

"Yes. Mrs. Hudson thank you." Sherlock cut her off turning to play his music, he'd finally finished the last part of it, writing the title in his usual chicken scratch, _Morientium Doctore_.(Latin The Dying Doctor)

His phone vibrated with another text.

_A fitting title. I will be seeing you later, you might want to study up on your Russian.-MH_

* * *

**Thank you all for reading. This was my first real go at a Sherlock Fanfiction. Reading all reviews made my day! I hope you enjoyed it, the Sherlock fandom is made up of very intelligent people, and writing a fanfiction for such an audience isn't easy, I only hope I didnt disappoint too much :) thanks again!**


End file.
